


a spark of light

by stilinski



Series: Silly Shorts (Tumblr Ficlets) [7]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blind Date, First Dates, Friendship, M/M, POV Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 03:13:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8187329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilinski/pseuds/stilinski
Summary: "He's quiet and maybe-judgemental, you're loud and very judgemental. You're opposites but with a common link – you'll be fine."
  "I'm not—"
  "You made a face at the idea of dating an accountant," Scott points out, waving a half-deseeded pepper around for emphasis, and Stiles is going right back to scowling at him because they have definitely been friends for too long if Scott's winning not-arguments by being reasonable.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was on my Tumblr because I wasn't sure I liked it. People were horrifically nice about it. So here it is, cleaned up a little.
> 
> Title from Josh Osho's [TMAIA](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4eCfFK4-pXM). The man has a voice I could listen to forever, if anyone's looking for a recommendation. (Freewheel is a _Stiles_ song and nobody can tell me otherwise.)
> 
> *
> 
>  
> 
> **Additionally: I do not give my consent for my work to be shared on GoodReads, or any other site with a similar objective. Ever. No exceptions.**

Stiles blinks and frowns at Allison over his coffee mug. It's not even nine in the morning and she looks far too perky to be human. Stiles makes a mental note to ask Scott if he's considered the possibility of his fiancé being a cyborg.

  "I'm sorry, can you run that by me again?"

  Allison rolls her eyes at him. "I was just saying, there's a guy from my gym and I think you'd really hit it off," she says. "He's really nice and he's _gorgeous_ to boot."

  "You're engaged to my best friend."

  "Believe me, Scott agrees," she says, waving a hand. "Anyway, I want you to let me set you up with him – just drinks, maybe dinner, see how things go."

  "You've been talking to Scott, haven't you?" He doesn't have to work hard to make it sound more like an accusation than a question – before his first coffee of the day, he's not usually up to giving his words any sort of inflection.

  "He's worried about you – we all are. Be thankful Lydia's still in New York, otherwise this would have happened months ago. We want you to be happy."

  "I _am_ happy," Stiles says, and maybe it comes out a little whinier than intended, but he's not going to backtrack now.

  "Scott thinks you're going to screwing your way through the entire state of California as some kind of coping mechanism," Allison points out and wow, apparently even perky cyborgs can do monotone. She lifts an eyebrow as she sips from her twelve-thousand-ingredient frappe. "Though he put it a little more diplomatically."

  Stiles squints at her and pulls his beanie down further, wondering if she'd notice him trying to suffocate himself with it in order to not have this conversation.

  "Stiles."

  " _Allison_." He stares at her and her dark eyes are fathomless, unforgiving. Tyrannical. Stiles scowls some more for good measure. "I'm _fine_ ," he says, narrowly avoiding slopping his coffee down his hoody. He's aware he's over-enunciating, but he needs to get across just how a-okay he is. "I _am_ – I'm just, you know, having fun."

  "Fun," Allison repeats, and there's that lack of vocal modulation again. Stiles wonders if she's a fast-learning type of cyborg who mimics and then improves upon those around her. Seriously – she's better at it than he is already. "Stiles, you're living off week-old takeout and going out to bars to pick people up three nights a week – that's not fine."

  "It could be," Stiles says, internally curses. "It _is_. It's fine because I'm doing it, and I'm fine. I like takeout – everybody likes takeout – and it's not like I'm drinking myself dry or anything."

  "Jeremy—"

  "We're not talking about Jeremy."

  Allison's expression is pointed. Stiles opts to be obtuse.

  "It's over; you have to let it go."

  "I am letting it go," Stiles says, putting his coffee down on the table to fold his arms around his chest. "According to you guys, I'm letting it go three times a week. I've never let it go more, you could say."

  "Don't be crass," Allison says.

  "Hark at you!"

  She kicks him under the table. "Let me set you up," she says. "One date, in a restaurant – a _nice_ restaurant – where you'll have to eat food and converse like a functional human being, rather than jump straight into bed with each other."

  "Good sex is key to a good relationship," Stiles says. Allison's eyebrows lift a fraction. "At least, for me it is – really, I'm just saving everyone involved a lot of time and energy by getting right to it."

  "You will _not_ have sex with this guy within hours of knowing him," Allison says firmly.

  "I haven't even agreed to go, yet."

  Her eyes gleam with triumph. "So we've established that you are going, I just have to wait for you to stop being stubborn about it."

  "What? No. We haven't established— _Allison Marie_."

  "Gotta go – my spin class is in ten minutes," she says, sweeping up from the table and kissing his cheek. "See you at dinner tonight – Scott's making tacos."

  Stiles is left sitting on his own, staring into his half-filled coffee cup and wondering what, exactly, just happened. Frowning, he pulls out his phone to demand to know why Scott sent his fiancée to shanghai him into dating some gym bunny who's going to take one look at him and strut – no, _sashay_ – away in disgust.

  Because if this guy's from Allison's gym, that's exactly the kind of person he's going to be – Allison goes to a _fancy_ gym and at least half the patrons only attend to ogle various instructors or to socialise, and can afford to do so.

  Stiles runs a couple times around his block every day and it's a method that's suited him since high school. Call him a traditionalist.

  Groaning – and drawing several alarmed looks from the half-awake coffee guzzlers around him – Stiles hauls himself to his feet and towards his car. Maybe if he looks pathetic enough, his boss will let him clock in early and take the time off the end of his shift.

*

Stiles ends up working extra but by the time he clocks out, he's more awake and has a written list of reasons why Allison should definitely not set him up with her gym friend – and at least two of them aren't variations of ' _because he's your gym friend_ '.

  He goes home, showers, slumps around his apartment for a half hour or so, and then drives over to the Argent-Delgado house.

  He can't help but feel he dirties the place up just by laying a hand on the white picket fence – because Scott is and will always be a romantic idealist at heart, the dork – but the neighbours haven't called the authorities on him yet, and he has been turning up at the same time every Thursday for as long as Scott and Allison have had the house.

  He lets himself in and wriggles out of his jacket. Despite the borderline intimidating dream house exterior, inside is always warm, always feels homey. "Hi, house!"

  "In here," Scott calls, like he always does. He's ripping up lettuce with his hands and grins when Stiles saunters into the kitchen. "Hey, man. Good day?"

  "Other than being bullied by your fiancée, sure," Stiles says, and squints suspiciously at him. "You never did reply to my text."

  Scott shrugs, still looking cheerful – Stiles' glares have become water to a duck's back for Scott over the years. "It was her idea, I had nothing to do with it," he says, then cocks his head and glances at him. "But I think it's a good idea, for what it's worth."

  "Of course you do."

  "What's the harm in it, Stiles? Go to dinner, have a couple of drinks – go on a normal date, have a pleasant night instead of a messy one," Scott says. "Wash your hands and chop those tomatoes for me. Ally's running late."

  "You guys are my friends," Stiles says, shrugging off his hoody and rolling up his sleeves to obey. "I don't need or want any of you trying to micromanage my love life. It's weird, and not appreciated."

  "We're not micromanaging," Scott says. "Just offering input. You helped me pick out paint colours and throw pillows – that wasn't you micromanaging my house."

  "You're comparing me going to a dinner with a guy your fiancée picked out, to a restaurant you or her are going to pick, on a date and time you guys pick," Stiles says slowly, popping a piece of tomato into his mouth before he goes back to slicing. "To me saying ' _yeah, the grey's cool_ ' and Googling whether or not pillows with tassels were tacky? _Scotty_."

  Scott merely offers him a smile and another one of his devil-may-care shrugs. "What do you have to lose?"

  "My dignity." Scott snorts. _Rude_. "My ability to bitch and moan about my dating life because they might turn out to be your _friends_?"

  "Derek's not Allison's _friend_ , really," Scott says thoughtfully, squeezing lime juice into a bowl of smashed up avocado. "But he's nice. Well, he's kind of quiet and a little judgemental, but he's an okay guy. If the date goes terribly, you can still bitch, I promise."

  "Quiet and judgemental? Is he some kind of sociopath? Wait—Allison's setting me up with a guy named _Derek_? Is he an accountant or something? Is he like, three times my age and a divorcé?"

  "He's pretty close to our age, I think. And you don't get to whine about anyone else's occupation, man – you have a dead end job of your own. That high horse doesn't suit you."

  Stiles stares at him. "You didn't say he wasn't a sociopath."

  "I've only met him once – I didn't exactly quiz him about whether or not he feels tingly at other peoples' pain. I think you'll get along."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "He's quiet and maybe-judgemental, you're loud and very judgemental. You're opposites but with a common link – you'll be fine."

  "I'm not—"

  "You made a face at the idea of dating an accountant," Scott points out, waving a half-deseeded pepper around for emphasis, and Stiles is going right back to scowling at him because they have definitely been friends for too long if Scott's winning not-arguments by being reasonable.

  Stiles heaves a beleaguered sigh and decides that chopping his own finger off probably wouldn't get him out of this date, dumping the diced tomatoes into the salad bowl. "What does he do for a living, then?"

  "You can ask him on your date."

  Stiles emphasises the sigh on the off chance Scott didn't catch how harassed and longsuffering he is.

  Scott bumps their shoulders together with a smile and then begins updating him on the ongoing saga that is his silent feud with the neighbours next door – their sprinklers keep browning Scott's lawn, horror of horrors.

  Allison gets home and says nothing of the date at all until they're halfway through dinner and Stiles is finished complaining about having a foot-high pile of paperwork dumped on his desk ten minutes before he'd planned to leave for the afternoon.

  "So, Derek's excited to meet you."

  Stiles doubts that. He wonders if the only thing in common they'll have is feeling mystifyingly cornered by the formidable force that is Allison Argent-soon-to-be-Delgado.

  "Really," Stiles says, taking a massive bite out of his taco in order to avoid further words.

  Allison nods, looking pleased with herself – she knows he's going; Scott probably relayed their conversation via ESP or some other form of psychic communication Stiles has long since suspected of them. "I told him I'd text him with the details this weekend – when's good for you?"

  Stiles lifts an eyebrow and continues chewing. He's always free. Stiles has literally made a point, in the last six months, to have no obligations other than those strictly necessary – forty miserable hours of work per week, breakfasts with dad at least one Sunday a month, Thursday dinners with the Argent-Delgados.

  "Saturday, then," Allison says, and Stiles does his level best not to choke. She gives him a cheerfully hapless look as if to point out that he didn't specify any sort of time frame so she can't be held accountable. "That gives you all of tomorrow and most of the day on Saturday to prepare. I'll text you where to be and what to wear."

  He opens his mouth.

  "You're not wearing plaid," she says without even glancing up from spooning more salsa into her tortilla. "Or jeans, sneakers, or a hoody. Shirt, slacks and decent shoes."

  "I'm not going on a date with you," Stiles says, indignant. "You're not even going to be there."

  "I'll ask Derek what you were wearing," she says, and then sighs. "Please, Stiles – make an effort?"

  Stiles looks to Scott for support, but he's shoved an entire spoonful of guacamole into his mouth and looks like he's ready to do it again should Stiles demand a response.

  "Fine," he says. "I'll go on the date and I'll pretend to be something I'm not for a few hours."

  Allison grins at him. "Thank you."

  "I live to serve."

*

Stiles sinks down onto his couch after another exciting day of filing and squinting at his monitor under the faint buzz of fluorescent lighting. He stares around himself and grimaces at his surroundings. Maybe – _maybe_ – Allison and Scott had a point.

  It's not as though Stiles is the tidiest person to ever walk the earth, but he does have a penchant for organisation and this—clothes in piles all over the apartment, empty plastic takeout boxes dominating his coffee table, his kitchen, even a bookshelf—this isn't even chaotically organised.

  Frowning at it, he kicks his shoes off and rolls over on the couch to face the back of it, closing his eyes intent on a nap.

  Stiles opens his eyes a whole ten minutes later, annoyed. Sleep has evaded him and has instead his brain has helpfully supplied him with a skin-crawling feeling, sending images of the dirt and clutter of his apartment to bounce around his mind.

  His brain is worse than Allison and Scott combined, he decides as he peels himself off of the couch. He begins grumpily snatching up every article of clothing he can get his hands on and shoving it all into the hamper in the bathroom.

  The hamper fills far quicker than he expected and he's still clutching a pile of slightly stale t-shirts he's sure he hasn't seen, let alone worn, in months.

  Growling, he drags himself through into his kitchen, thanking whatever powers that may be that his washing machine is in his apartment instead of a communal one in the basement.

  Only once the first load is in and swishing around does Stiles come to the realisation he probably hasn't done laundry since Jeremy left. When he thinks about it, he realises he has actually gone out and bought new multi-packs of plain shirts and boxer shorts instead of washing what he already had.

  Stiles gives his wash hamper a scrunch-nosed sceptical look, wonders if he should just burn it and start over.

  It actually takes a few minutes for him to convince himself that's a bad idea. Messy, he tells himself. Bad for the environment, probably. Increased possibility of his long-suffering neighbours finally calling the authorities on him, definitely.

  He straightens and looks around his sad, cluttered kitchen. He doesn't remember really _seeing_ any of his surroundings recently – he used to love his apartment, used to think of it as his sanctuary, his little niche carved away from the rest of the world, but in the last six months he's completely neglected it – it's become a place to collapse after work, to have takeout delivered to, to sleep, and that's all.

  Stiles shrugs out of his hoody – he dumps it straight into the hamper and after a moment, shucks out of his jeans and sticks those in there, too. Then, he drags out a fresh trash bag and begins shoving everything on the counters into it. There are a couple of plates with crusty, stomach-turning contents stuck to them and he takes the coward's way out, letting them crack and smash as he drops them into the bag.

  Next time he looks up, it's full dark outside and his phone is trying to vibrate a hole through his now-clear coffee table. Stiles answers it with a sigh, allowing his couch to attempt to swallow him as he drops down onto it.

  "Stiles! Are you okay? I'm on my way over."

  "What? I'm fine," Stiles says, dragging his icky, dust-and-god-knows-what-else-caked body over to click on the reading lamp at the other end of the couch. "What's up?"

  Scott sounds confused. "Ally and I have been texting you, like, all day," he says. "Last time it took you more than four hours to reply to something was when you got drunk and fell asleep in the bath."

  "Good times."

  "You almost drowned."

  Stiles hums. "Anyway, I'm fine, no need to bring in the cavalry: I'm sober and nowhere near a bath."

  "I'm on my way anyway," Scott says after a moment. "I'll bring pizza."

  Stiles' stomach chooses that moment to growl so loudly he's half surprised the building doesn't shake. He looks around and realises he hasn't eaten since the vending machine burrito he had for lunch.

  "I'll dig out some video games."

  It's with something akin to satisfaction that he realises he doesn't have to dig: his cleaning has unearthed them, stacked up under his TV.

*

Scott arrives and it takes him a full five minutes of gaping around himself in awe before he manages to speak. Stiles, freshly showered and dressed in literally the only clothes that aren't dirty, wet or currently being washed, shrugs off Scott's approval but he looks so happy and relieved that Stiles can't help but feel like he's achieved something.

  After the pizza is demolished and they've thoroughly thrashed one another at three different games, Scott hugs him for a full minute and takes a large bag of wet clothing home with him – he and Allison have a dryer, whereas Stiles is relying on every elevated or even sort-of-flat surface he has to drape clothing over.

*

Stiles wakes late the following morning to the inescapable scent of laundry detergent and various cleaning solutions.  He groans and pulls the covers over his head only to leap out of bed immediately afterwards because in comparison to the rest of his apartment, his bed smells like _death_.

  Briefly, he's thankful his unconscious mind was looking out for him enough to never bring anyone home.

  Feeling betrayed, Stiles drags all of the bedding through to his kitchen and wonders if he'd break the washer if he puts the comforter itself into it. He stares at it for a while, hoping for the answer to hop into his head. When it doesn't, he switches on the coffee maker and stares at that until it satisfies him instead. It, unlike the washing machine, is more than happy to oblige and before long he's standing before the washing machine again, cup of wake up juice cradled to his chest.

  After a brief – but judgemental – telephone conversation with his father, Stiles wrestles the bedding into the machine, putting the comforter to one side for a later cycle of its own.

  Having worked up a light sweat just from that, he goes to melt into his sofa, grabbing his phone as it chirps.

**From Scott:** Fair warning – Allison's bringing your clothes back today and she's already picked your outfit for tonight.

  Stiles knows for a fact the selection of clothes Scott chose to take home were all of his good shirts and slacks but he opts, for the sake of letting Scott continue to be inordinately pleased with himself, not to point that out and instead sends a droopy-eyed emoji back to him.

  Shaking his head, Stiles opens his laptop and pulls up the code he's been on and off tinkering with for the past few weeks.

  He's interrupted around an hour into his coding (or scowling and cursing at coding, to give it its full and more accurate title) by Lydia calling him on Skype.

  "I hear you have a date," she says in lieu of a greeting. Stiles folds his arms and she rolls her eyes. "Hi Stiles, how are you? Fine? I'm glad - I'm doing well, too, thank you for asking. Now, date?"

  Stiles has the worst friends.

  "Ally's dressing me," he says. "No need to worry."

  "I know," she says, tipping her head. "She called me last night. You never tell me anything."

  Stiles raises his eyebrows. "None of this was my idea," he says. "And it's not a big deal - I go out with people all the time. Everyone's acting like I've never eaten dinner with another human being before."

  "You haven't _dated_ anyone in six months," Lydia says. "Nobody doubts your ability to talk your way into somebody's bed. You know as well as any of us that dating and getting laid are two completely different concepts."

  "Did you call just to lecture me? Allison already informed me I'm not going to sleep with the guy tonight, all right? I'm not completely controlled by my dick - I can cope with not getting it wet for one night. I don't get what everyone has against my sex life all of a sudden."

  "Nobody cares how often you're having sex, Stiles, but you're using it as a crutch, a coping mechanism, rather than because you're enjoying it. I'm on the other side of the country and I know that."

  "That's because you and Allison have nothing better to do than gossip about me," Stiles grumbles; protest won't do anything but convince Lydia she's correct anyway. "I can be happy _and_ single, you know."

  "Of course you can, but you're not happy, and you actually like being in a relationship. I have several years' worth of evidence to that effect."

  They're silent for a little while; Stiles goes back to coding with Skype running in the background and Lydia's braiding her hair when he checks on her, a smudge of ink on her chin telling him she's been working all day, scribbling down theories and figures Stiles can only follow when he's been sleep deprived for a couple days.

  "You know, it's okay to miss him," Lydia says and Stiles' gut tightens unpleasantly because he knows what, and who, she's talking about. He doesn't answer her, but his expression must give him away because she sighs. "Stiles, please don't ruin your night by comparing anyone, okay? It's fine to miss him, but don't let him spoil tonight for you."

  Stiles shrugs. "It's one dinner with a guy who probably makes more in a month than I do in a year - he'll be polite and I'll be civil and we'll go our separate ways. He'll tell Allison I was funny and I'll tell everyone he was charming and we can all stop looking at me like I'm gonna break. I'm fine. Even if I wasn't, Jer left six months ago - anything I feel right now has nothing to do with him."

  Lydia looks sad and somehow unimpressed, but Allison's letting herself into Stiles' apartment and she's cut off before she can even start to say anything.

  Allison drops a kiss on his cheek, waves at Lydia and then invites herself into Stiles' bedroom, massive bag slung over her shoulder.

  "Has Allison actually kidnapped a man in order for you to go on a date?" Lydia asks. "She said he was from her gym - I assumed that meant he was actually going to meet you at a restaurant, not that she was going to knock him out and bring him to you."

  Stiles snorts. "I had something of a cleaning fit—I'm claiming temporary insanity—and Scott took some of my clothes to dry. He thought he was being sneaky by taking all of my good clothes. I've begun to suspect his fiancée told him to do it."

  Lydia smiles. "I'll leave you to it, then. I'm coming home next month, but I expect you to call before then."

  "Yes, _mom_ ," Stiles says and blows her a kiss in the most unflattering, ridiculous way he can just to get a laugh out of her.

*

Stiles would rather eat his own shoe than admit to Allison, who's perched on his couch watching him like a particularly suspicious hawk, that he's nervous. She cut him off caffeine a few hours ago and hasn't allowed him even so much as a sniff of alcohol. In fact, once she got him into his date clothes, she'd guided him to the sofa and refused to let him move more than few feet in any direction.

  "I don't need you to hold my hand," Stiles says, not a little bitterly. "I've been on dates before. Please don't tell me you're going to literally walk me to the door of the place."

  "You're my friend. I can hang out at your apartment."

  "You're not hanging out; you're staring. You also weren't invited. Don't you have a beautiful, huge house of your own to loiter in? A fiancé who'd probably appreciate your staring?"

  "Scott's on a late close at the clinic," she says easily. "And I'll head home in a little while – I wanted to be supportive. This is your first date in a while."

  "People keep telling me that." Stiles runs a hand through his hair just to watch Allison compulsively twitch – she hadn't tried to style his hair more than he usually does, thank Jesus and all of his apostles, but he's treading a very fine line. "I should just head out now and get it over with, anyway."

  "You'll be waiting thirty minutes for your reservation," Allison says with a frown. "And I don't trust you not to wait at the bar."

  "I _won't_ ," Stiles says, exasperated. "Look, I'm aware I'm going on a date, and I'm _not_ going to embarrass myself. Contrary to what literally all of you believe, I can behave like a functional member of society when I choose to."

  "But—"

  Stiles grabs his keys. "Out," he says, standing and reaching over to haul Allison to her feet. "I'm l leaving and so are you, and you're going to go home and text me a photograph of you sitting on your couch in your pyjamas with today's paper as proof you're not following me."

  Allison pouts at him, but Stiles grew up with Scott and his puppy dog eyes – he's immune to even the sweetest, most imploring of looks these days. She huffs and allows Stiles to drag her out of his apartment.

  He follows her all the way out to her car to make sure she gets there, prompting her to laugh and hug him, smoothing out his collar and kissing his cheek.

  "Just have fun tonight, okay? I know you're doing this just to get us off your back, but I promise, Derek's really, really nice. Even if there's no _spark_ , if you give him a chance, I'm sure you'll still have a good time."

  "Yeah, yeah," he says, fond. For all he's been all but bullied into this whole thing, it does feel kind of good to be dressed up nice, the nerves in his belly are almost pleasant, a change from the usual churning self-loathing. "Get gone. Now, I want that photo within the next thirty minutes."

  She socks him in the shoulder but slides into her car without further comment, beaming at him when she turns to see him a few spaces away beside his own car. It's a miracle she doesn't crash, in all honesty, with how violently she waves, leaning out of her window and shouting various encouragements.

  Stiles is glad his neighbours are used to his bizarre friends. Really.

*

The young woman behind the desk when he arrives directs him to the bar and hands him a pager for when his table is ready. Opting not to risk the chance of Allison appearing from behind the decorative ficus across the room, he orders a glass of water and simply settles in to browse the internet on his phone until it's time.

  The pager goes off and Stiles is led to a relatively secluded table near the back of the restaurant. The waitress seats him and places the menus on the table, reeling off a list of wines and specials. Stiles blinks up at her and requests another glass of water for the time being.

  Stiles' phone vibrates and he opens the message to find a photo of Allison sitting on her couch grinning and holding a glass of wine, dressed in one of Scott's t-shirts and a pair of shorts.

**From Ally:** No newspapers, but here I am! Scott's home and says he promises to keep me from running out to spy on your date. Derek should be there soon! Have fun!!

  Shaking his head, he shoves his phone into his pocket and takes to surreptitiously examining his fellow diners. The food he can see on the tables looks good, at least, and he pulls the menu towards him, figuring he might as well have some idea of what he'd like to order.

  Stiles has read the entirety of the menu twice by the time he caves to temptation and pulls his phone back out of his pocket. It's ten minutes past the reservation time – that's bad date etiquette, right? Definitely bad _first_ date etiquette, he's sure. It's good practice to at least be on time, if not early. He's sure he read that in one of those materialistic magazines Lydia used to be in the habit of carrying around.

  He forces himself not to text Allison to complain – if Derek's any more than thirty minutes late, he'll leave. He'll take a photo of the empty chair opposite him to prove his own attendance, and leave.

  Ten minutes ticks over to fifteen and Stiles cracks and orders a glass of scotch – he'll walk home, if need be. Logically, he knows nobody's paying him any attention, but he's beginning to feel like everyone's staring, skin crawling at the thought. He undoes the top button of his shirt, glad he'd vetoed Allison's attempt at getting him into a tie.

  Twenty minutes and his server appears at the table; he hadn't even seen her approach. Stiles manages to rein in the instinct to jump and yelp, but just barely.

  "Here you are," she says to the man behind her. She recites the specials and house wines to him, too, before disappearing once more. Stiles then feels safe enough to look at his company and— _wow_. Okay, he'll admit that Allison might have had a point, in the looks department.

  "Hi," he says, witty conversationalist that he is. He attempts to make his scramble to his feet look somewhat composed as he extends a hand. "Hey, I'm Stiles."

  The man – Derek, presumably, hopefully – shakes his hand. "Derek," he says, and Stiles kind of wants to listen to him talk forever. Those two syllables were wonderful. Stiles helplessly gestures for Derek to sit while he does the same. "Sorry I'm so late."

  "If your situation is anything like mine, you were probably completely suckered into this – I don't blame you," Stiles says, and good lord, why is he so nervous all of a sudden? He picks up his glass for lack of anything else to do. Derek offers him a small, tight smile and glances down at the drinks menu, pale eyes roving over it.

  Now that he's looking properly, there's something vaguely familiar about the particular angle of that stubbled jaw, the broad slope of his shoulders under the crisp white shirt he's wearing, his thin, sombre mouth.

  It takes a moment, but when the memory of dark hair spiking up between Stiles' raking fingers surfaces in his mind's eye, Stiles' stomach sinks.

  So, Derek may have been one of his many ill-advised drunken conquests. Judging by the less than thrilled expression on his face, he remembers it even better than Stiles does—or, well, maybe he remembers the whole waking up alone without explanation thing.

  "So, this is kind of awkward, right?" Stiles says. Derek looks up at him, tremendously expressive eyebrows rising. "I mean, it's weird. Of all the guys Allison might have been going to the gym with. Of all the guys for her fiancé to have been best friends with since kindergarten."

  "Small world," Derek says, his face telling Stiles quite clearly that he doesn't know what the hell to do. In all fairness, Stiles doesn't, either.

  "Drink?"

  "Gonna need one."

  "I'll get a bottle – red okay?"

  At Derek's nod, Stiles straightens to catch the eye of their server. He's definitely going to be walking home tonight – he'll guilt Allison into giving him a ride to his car in the morning, seeing as she's already bullied him into agreeing to go for coffee. Stiles suspects it's her adorable attempt to make sure he doesn't drink himself into a catatonia.

  "So," Stiles says, deciding to make the most of the situation now that he's somewhat assured Derek isn't going to bolt. "Allison said she thought we'd get along even if there was no _spark_ , so how about we start over? Or, uh, start properly. Like normal people."

  "It's probably fair to say there was a spark," Derek says, and he's beginning to look less tense and more cautiously amused, settling in his chair. Before Stiles can figure out how, exactly, he's supposed to behave himself around Derek when he's being so, well, _flirty_ , Derek's shrugging and swapping his drinks menu for the food one. "What do you do for a living?"

  "I'm in admin," Stiles says because he can do small talk. He works in an office – small talk is a skill he had to acquire as a survival mechanism. "Menial and more than a little mind-numbing, but it pays well enough. How about you?"

  "I'm an accountant."

  Stiles is going to kill Scott. Stiles is going to go out and get new friends, and who'll be laughing, then? Not Scott. Not Scott, because Scott will be dead. Because Stiles is going to kill him.

  Derek's eyes – so pretty even in the dim lighting; Stiles regrets not taking more time to gaze at them when they'd met last – glimmer with something he'd call humour if he didn't know better.

  Stiles winds down from trying to come up with something to say about how fascinating that must be. "You're not an accountant."

  "No, I'm not – Allison told me to say that. What did accountants ever do to you?" Derek asks, lips curling up. "You looked like I'd just told you I drown kittens for fun."

  "Collectively? Nothing, really – I worked with one, once, for a client, and she was the devil incarnate," Stiles says. "If the devil incarnate has a proclivity for trashy celebrity perfumes and lacks a sense of humour."

  "And that means you're dead set against all accountants, forever?"

  "My ex was a teacher – I can never go near any kind of educational institution again," Stiles tells him, only half joking. "Kids are off the table for me completely."

  Derek's looking at him like he's some kind of newly discovered life form. "I'm a little afraid to tell you what I do," he says. "So I'll only tell you if tonight goes well."

  "Are you a cop? Please say you're not a cop, because my dad's the Sheriff of my hometown and I'm pretty fond of him," Stiles says, but he's teasing now and Derek looks a lot less wary.

  "Not a cop," he says and Stiles overacts his relief just to see if he can get a smile – he's successful, though Derek hides it quickly.

  Their server returns with the bottle of wine Stiles ordered and pours both of them a glass, informing them she'll return to take their orders in a moment.

  "Appetiser first, or straight to the main event?" Stiles asks, perfectly innocently until he sees Derek's eyebrow lift and then suddenly he can't get all of the euphemistic connotations of his entirely innocuous phrasing out of his head.

  He grabs for his wine glass to give himself something to focus on, suddenly unsure how he's going to survive dinner with Derek looking at him like that, mouth set in a faint smirk.

*

The annoying thing, Stiles decides, is Allison and Scott were right: barring a few awkward non-sequiturs, he and Derek do get along and dinner goes by almost too quickly. Stiles wonders if, had they not been drunk and inclined not to think straight last time, they'd have gotten together to do this sooner.

  When Derek insists on getting separate desserts, Stiles almost throws in the towel and proposes marriage right there. Jeremy had always tried to share Stiles' desserts, and then made Stiles feel more than a little childish when he complained about it.

  "So, do you think I could get your number this time?" Stiles asks.

  Derek glances at him oddly, forkful of cheesecake suspended between his plate and his mouth. "You have my number," he says after a moment, lowering his fork. "I gave it to you. I wouldn't dance with you but you kept complaining that if you left me at the bar while you went to dance alone, I'd leave and you'd never get to come home with me."

  Stiles would appreciate it very much if the floor would open up and swallow him right now. "You—I—well, that's embarrassing."

  "You don't remember any of that night, do you?"

  "I remember some of it," Stiles says, stabbing his chocolate cake a little more viciously than is probably necessary. "I don't remember making an ass of myself, and I'm very grateful I don't remember _dancing_. I remember the good parts."

  The last is somewhat mumbled but Derek hears him just fine if the wicked little grin on his face is anything to go by. Thankfully, he takes pity on Stiles and holds out his hand. "Phone."

  Stiles doesn't quite scramble to hand it over, but it's a close call; within a few taps, Derek hands it back – there's the contact number for Hot Bar Guy.

  "How come you didn't know it was gonna be me, then, if you remember the night in its entirety – surely I told you my name? How many guys called Stiles do you know?"

  "I couldn't be exactly sure there's just one guy called Stiles in the world," Derek says, watching Stiles rename the number and save it under Derek's actual name. "But even if you were the same guy, I had fun that night." He takes a bite of his cheesecake; Stiles' brain stalls momentarily as he watches the Derek's lips. "Even if you never called."

  "Build me up just to knock me down, huh?" Stiles says, clearing his throat and looking down to send a text to Derek's number. "There. Now you have the option of calling me on the off chance I develop mysterious amnesia on my way home tonight." Derek gives him a smile – small, but genuine as far as he can tell, and Stiles manages to eat a piece of cake instead of destroying it. "So, you wanted me to call, huh?"

  "Don't fish, it's not becoming," Derek says, and Stiles may be a little in love already.

  "You say that like you're not already a tiny bit into me," Stiles says, just to watch Derek roll his eyes and smirk down at his dessert. Stiles grins at him, waiting for him to look back up before shrugging his shoulders. "I mean, if it makes you feel any better, there's a chance that I'd be open to doing this again. I might even text you to see what you're doing next weekend."

  "Oh, you might?" Derek asks. "Well, I don't know if there's room in my social calendar for 'might'."

  Stiles doesn't bother trying to fight away the smile that won't leave his face. "I guess I could be persuaded to upgrade to 'definitely'."

  "Definitely? That's a little desperate."

  "Don't fish – it's unbecoming," Stiles mimics.

  Derek's laugh is a wondrous sound. Stiles wonders how desperate he'd sound if he admitted to wanting to spend hours figuring out how to make him make it over and over.

  "How would I go about upgrading that maybe, then?"

  Stiles feels slightly dazed, wonders if his face shows it. "You just did." He waves their server over to ask for the bill and then looks at Derek. "So, am I forgiven for getting blind drunk and almost completely screwing this up?"

  _This_ being the almost palpable electricity between them; the wariness giving way to warmth in Derek's eyes; the occasional bump of their shoes under the table; the fact Stiles has spent the entirety of dinner wondering how much Derek would despise him if he tells everyone their first meeting was a one night stand in his wedding vows.

  "I could be convinced to forgive you," Derek says, his credit card halfway out of his wallet by the time Stiles has already handed his over for the waitress to take.

  "I'm not above begging," Stiles tells him, tracing a thumb through the condensation of his water glass. Derek's eyes are lidded and dark when he looks up and Stiles smiles, tipping his chin up. "I told Allison I wasn't going to sleep with you tonight."

  Derek lifts an eyebrow. "Allison's not invited," he says. "And nobody said anything about sleep."

*

Stiles groans, awoken by his phone vibrating off of his bedside cabinet. Grunting, he army-crawls to the edge of the bed and answers it just to make it stop.

  "What?"

  Stiles watches a well-muscled forearm slide over his hip and across his belly, lets himself be dragged backwards against a warm chest, allows the blanket from the couch to be drawn back up to his ribs. Derek huffs and presses his forehead against the knob at the base of Stiles' neck.

  "It's gone nine – you were supposed to meet me for coffee?"

  Allison. Stiles bites back a curse and wishes he'd checked the caller ID.

  "Sorry, Ally – something came up," he says; Derek buries a snicker between his shoulder blades and Stiles is helplessly endeared all over again by the fact they both have the same terrible sense of humour. "I'm, uh, otherwise engaged. Maybe lunch—oh, okay—okay, maybe not lunch. Uh, how's tomorrow?"

  "Stiles! You promised you wouldn't!"

  "I didn't _promise_ anything," Stiles says, shivering as Derek nudges the blanket a little further down to trace his ribs. "I agreed that I wouldn't sleep with someone I only met a few hours beforehand. Turns out, your proverbial horse bolted at least a month and a half before you shut the stable door."

  Allison's silence is very grumpy. And judgemental. Stiles grins dopily at the opposite wall.

  "Remember the guy whose mail I had to poke through so I could call a cab at four in the morning because he was sleeping like the dead?" Stiles asks, arching his back – Derek, clearly bored of this conversation, has begun biting and sucking his way down his spine. "That was Derek. We've been brought together after almost two months of hopelessly pining, gazing thoughtfully out of artfully rain-spattered window panes, going for long walks across windswept, dreary fields..."

  Derek laughs, almost fully submerged under the cover, now.

  "Ally, I'm gonna have to go otherwise this is gonna get extraordinarily awkward," Stiles says because Derek's hands are sliding along his thighs, sweeping higher, teeth scraping at the small of his back. He bites off a highly unflattering sound and hangs up the phone before he can hear what disapproving thing Allison has to say next.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Tumblr](http://obroech.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/obroechlin)! Come say hi!
> 
> (Derek's a nurse, bee tee dubs. He finally acquiesces to telling Stiles this months later, when they're moving in together.)


End file.
